We'll Make a Bed of Forest Leaves
by HeathyrFeathyr
Summary: How far can he run? How much can he sacrifice? Gisborne promised her a new life, and after he freed her from jail he promised they would start over. He will run, he will pay, he will kill - no matter what, he will start over with her. (Periodic detailed violence, language, and brief sexuality.)
1. Take Care

This story is inspired by a poem I was shown by a friend, written by Michael Faudet. I do not own or claim any ownership to the poem or characters herein. Here is the poem:

**Such pretty things**

**you said to me –**

**Unbutton me**

**some more.**

**For I am yours**

**to take tonight**

**upon this forest floor.**

**Let's make a bed**

**in autumn leaves,**

**and leave**

**no leaf unturned**

**Beneath these trees**

**please teach me,**

**please –**

**To learn**

**a love**

**unlearned.**

**\- Michael Faudet**

"Lucy, come on, kitty, kitty."

Rain pounded down across England, streaking the deep dark still of night. Soft flickers of candle light still spotted the windows of cottages of huts as the people of Nettlestone prepared their beds.

"Lucy! Here kitty, Lucy!"

The shout of water slamming into mud rivalled the noise of ankle deep rivers pushing down the roads and drowning out yards and plants throughout the village. Then through the veil of darkness punched a small shadow that darted for her voice out cowardice and love, and very quickly the cat was scooped up and held tightly. Lucy was dripping from each paw, her gray fur matted down with rain, her eyes bewildered by the severity of the storm. She was quickly eased, though, by the tenderness of her owner; the way her hands always pet her softly and the way she cooed as if speaking to an infant.

"Poor thing, look at you, you're a drowned rat!" She noted the light blue fabric of her gown grow darker as the wet cat soaked through the belly of her clothes. The coldness crept like a vine up her ribs and crawled across her shoulders, reaching around to nip at her spine. With a shiver she glanced down the lane to notice several figures begrudgingly shifting about on the horizon. They appeared in the same texture as the looming shadows one's mind creates when surrounded by a dark room, except these ones carried covered torches that pierced the night with hazing oranges. Her green eyes squinted in what there was of light to make out what was happening yet there was no chance she could see or hear anything in this overflowing storm.

Defeated, she turned and opened the front door to the hovel to call it a night. As she whipped around to shut it she noticed one of the shadows edging up to her porch. Her fingers clutched a bit tighter on the cat's belly as the shape neared; no matter how close it got no color or shape could be deciphered from the background. It wasn't until the tall man was actually before her, torch in hand, that she could see it was only one of the Sheriff's workers – Sir Guy of Gisborne, to be exact. No one could ever say they were relieved to see him, but she did feel a break in realizing the fanciful and childish fear of demons were not the shadows lurking down the street. Some would still call those men demons, though, just ones in human flesh.

"Is everything alright?" Gisborne asked, "We heard shouting." His words described concern, and yet his strong jaw and monotone voice noted only a script of feigned worry. He did not want to get called out on letting a crime happen a block away from him for his own name's sake, not her defense. It took her a puzzled moment to reply.

"Shouting? Oh, no… I was calling for the cat to come in from the rain." She gave a light smile and shrugged. Guy's icy eyes looked down at the animal before rolling full circle in disgust – what a waste of time. "Is everything alright down there?" He followed her motion to the workers in the distance. Gisborne blinked several times and averted his gaze before looking back at her.

"The Sheriff requires new storage for provisions. It's nothing you or your lot need to be concerned about."

"Must be hard working in this weather. My goodness, you're going to catch cold – you take care of yourself out there." She wore worry on her brow with these words, which perplexed Sir Guy. Why should she care about their welfare if they're just builders? He noticed her creamy white skin crinkle up in goosebumps to protect her from the icy storm, her slim arms twitching with a shiver… He did not quite know how to feel about her freezing herself just to speak with him. All he could think was, _why?_

"It is a man's work, we will get it done." Gisborne let a tiny grin flash for a moment to return her kindness.

"Well, if it gets too cold and you'd like some warm barley tea, you come on back and ask for me."

"Who?"

"Sorry?"

"Who do I ask for…?" His low voice tattered off into a silly chuckle. Guy felt captive to a giddy schoolboy who was charging around with excitement from the attention of a pretty classmate.

"Oh, now, where are my manners? Beatrice – my name is Beatrice, daughter of Edgar Howell." With sheepishness the young lady set down the cat indoors and extended a hand to shake. Guy made eye contact with her as he slipped off a worn glove and took her palm, raising her hand to give it a light kiss.

"Goodnight, Beatrice." He smiled. As she shut the door Gisborne pounded his head into the side of the house. _What_ on earth was that?

He realized he had reached the point of being simply delusional. Ever since Marian flew away to the forest he felt a loss of direction, a loss of himself. Now, like the starved stray dog that he was, he chased and clawed for the morsels and scraps of attention he could find from anybody on the street. Guy had tucked away the fact that Vaisey would always dote on him in exchange for service; he was fine with lying to himself to believe it was affection. Guy hid the truth he already knew deep inside his coat, under his ribs, in his own heart where he dare not look.

The months without Marian were filled with as much drink and courtesans his body could handle – after all, that's attention, isn't it? He had always known the answer was no. But now in this moment he knew he could not break away from the first natural emotion he had felt in so so long. He had to decide whether it was okay to flee his shell of hurt and angst… No. No, it was not safe. It was not smart. It was not going to happen. He threw on a poker face and trudged back into the shower of rain to bark orders. In this weather, he did not allow himself to even feel the water on his skin.


	2. Zacchaeus

Weeks had passed since the Sheriff's provisions shed had been established in Nettlestone, meaning there were weeks that Robin Hood had a chance to plot a heist. It was much like leaked oil creeping towards a flame; only a matter of time before an incident.

"Would you relax," Robin chirped as he swept brush away from his face, "this will be a piece of cake!"

"I'm just saying, it could be a trap. Why _isn't_ it a trap, Robin, hmm?"

"Because, Much, it just isn't."

"I'm not trying to be funny or nothin'," Allan butted in as he sped up to catch their heels, "but we have fallen into lots of traps."

"Would you all just shut up! Allan, go to your post!" The leader commanded as they pressed into the border of Nettlestone.

The bandits cloaked themselves within the edge of the forest until a congregation of citizens appeared to blend them into the crowd. Hood let out a cry like a nightingale to signal his group to flank forward, and they followed. Like clockwork each member achieved their task: Will and Allan sawed an opening into the rear of the building whilst Djaq and Marian provided a shrub to cover the hole the size of a crouching man. Robin and his partner staged lookout whilst Little John prepared for catastrophe. Once inside, Robin siphoned out monies and foods down a conveyor belt of outlaws until the back of the goods were taken. Inside remained the front façade of items so it did not look suspicious upon general glance. He slipped out and ensured his men, and women, had escaped without a trace into the leaves.

Robin adjusted his hood to keep out sharp sunlight and wandering eyes as he twisted down the road to a cottage. He tapped on the window, as was arranged, on the residence of his informant. As the knob clicked open he slipped inside and beamed. His ally may be old, but he was certainly useful. The short man's hair was mortally wounded in the combat against gray, the brown dissolving seemingly every minute. But his eyes were full of adventure.

"Edgar my friend, thank you. This is for your service and… for the next hint you have for us?" Robin retrieved a leather sack the size of his palm with golden rewards inside. Edgar patted his shoulders and let the rebel back to his bedroom where there were smuggled records of Vaisey's next movements of payment for Prince John's troops.

"These should cover the next two weeks, Robin. Please, take them with you."

"England is in your debt, my friend."

"England is on a sick bed, and only we have the apothecary to mend her." The informant assured the former Lord of Locksley. As he opened his mouth again, a rapping on the door came to boom the house with silence. Edgar paced himself to the door. "Sir Guy!" he announced loudly, hoping to send the hint that the outlaw needed to flee – now. Luckily, he did just that. Robin scooped up an armful of papers and wormed his way out the window before Gisborne even stepped foot inside.

"Is this a bad time?" Guy added, perhaps looking for an excuse to escape. He was so sure this was the right thing to do until he actually followed through. Now he felt his lungs become dragged down with cement. Robin peeked behind him, wary that there could be trouble for poor Edgar, but he did not see any guards or malice lingering with the man in black.

"Of course not," Edgar meekly donated a smile to his enemy, "Beatrice! You have a visitor!" He smeared away the sweat of his nervous palms as his daughter appeared from a back room, her hands dripping a thick red.

"Sir Guy!" she said with surprise creeping in. She raised an eyebrow when the only answer she got was astonishment on his behalf.

"You – you're hurt!" Gisborne frowned with his lips apart.

"What? No, no, no! I'm a cloth-dyer," Beatrice laughed heartily before grabbing a distressed towel. It certainly did not look clean, but her hands were as good as new before she approached him. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh," he said as his eyes drifted around. Scattered across the dirty ground was evidence of poverty and humility. Straw had been strewn through the halls; likely her dumb cat pulled it from the beds and trailed it everywhere. The most expensive things he could find were a large cooking pot, a cross above the door, and Beatrice's clothes. Likely she can bargain for them if she works alongside cloth makers. Guy was a whirlpool of feelings as he knew he should be disgusted. He was. But he also found a way to see her kindness over her simplicity. Maybe… no. He had come here to prove to himself the stupid whisper that urged him to return was for naught.

"Sir Guy?"

"Ah, yes. The barley tea. You, um, you had offered me tea. I thought, perchance, we could. But I see you are busy."

"Nonsense. I was just cleaning up." She grinned and began to work water from a barrel into the pot. With a small grunt the brunette knicked a flint and ignited the fire with which to heat the tea. Gisborne silently drifted towards a window. His skin felt itchy and shrunken, as if washed on the wrong cycle, and now his body ached to hatch free of it. He was uncomfortable here. A man of his nobility did not belong in this lowly home, nor did a man of his deeds deserve such kindness.

"You know," Beatrice remarked as she spooned out honey, "I have never offered tea to a man who waits for the rain to stop, then another three weeks to actually come drink it."

"You offer tea to a lot of men, then?"

"I believe that is my business." She coolly joked with a sly wickedness that could not hide her bubbling giggle. "But I will have you know all the men of Lancashire rave about it to this day."

"Is that so?" the corner of Guy's mouth curled up at her wit. It reminded him of the fire he craved in Marian. Beatrice motioned for him to sit at the small wooden table that was nestled against the wall and he complied, sliding his hand along the round edge of it as she sat across form him, two cups of barley tea in hand.

"I see you didn't drown in your shed." She mentioned after silent drinking. Guy mildly shook his head and went back to looking out the window. He was briefly distracted as Lucy the cat dragged herself across his leg on her way to the kitchen, then returned to himself. Beatrice twirled a finger through her auburn curls before bringing up anything else.

"So, Sir Guy, what is it you –"

"Why me?" he declared, shooting his blue eyes into her.

"What?"

"Why are you so kind to me? What do you want from it?" the muscles in his cheeks tightened as his jaw locked in hostility.

"I want nothing more than to be polite, why should that be a chore? You came to me freezing. Was I supposed to ignore you?"

"Yes."

"Well I guess I'm not allowed to have the neighbor boy help me garden vegetables then, either. I'm sorry to be decent to you. If you hate courtesy so much, then leave." She sat herself even straighter than before with a sourness across her. Her chest stood still with the swollen breath of being rustled. Gisborne, though, did not move nor did he release his stare; she could feel him watch each movement in her face.

"That was uncalled for," He eventually answered and let his eyes tumble down to what was left of his barley tea, "I just do not experience kindness such as yours from strangers." He immediately clammed back up after realizing he was about to show himself and speak freely, desperately clawing for more leather to bolster the hide between her and his human heart.

"Well, you should. I mean, it's just like in the bible with Zacchaeus, you know? Be kind to those who do wrong or have terrible jobs. People fear you for what you have to do, not who you are." She did not notice that his nod was insincere – what reason could Gisborne possibly find for picking up a bible or showing up to a church? He had no shroud of a clue what she was talking about, but he did feel guilty for her naivety. If anything, his job was much more angelic than who he was as man; everyone had a right to fear his sadism.

But perhaps that was his answer to the question that gnawed on his organs like a cancer for the past several days; the most pure solution to the complex and painfully heavy _why_ he could not add up. Because she was naïve, that's why, she's a silly young girl without an idea about life in her head. Perhaps sheltered, perhaps stupid, but overall innocent. Now he could rest his weary mind.

His attention was snapped away when a sharp knock came to the front door. Beatrice glanced at Guy before opening it and was greeted by a minion dripping in chainmail.

"Hello, m'lady. I'm looking for Sir Guy of Gisborne."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Guy burned up in an instant as he took one large step to the porch. One of his workers had seen him in a moment of weakness, doing something stupid and out of character. Something maybe even defined as wrong.

"Sir Guy," he gave a small salute, "The Sheriff has asked for you to personally escort him around the provision sheds here and in Clun."

Edgar drifted into the room unnoticeably with a quill in hand. Both Beatrice and Gisborne had their back to him and did not notice his scramble for parchment to write on.

"He has already examined the shed in Locksley but does not feel it is safe to go to the others alone… excuse me?" The armored man broke off as he gently nudged Beatrice out of the way to address her father. Edgar stood up straight and smiled with the calmness of an elderly man. He slipped a cookbook out and added the sheet into the collection of foodstuffs, claiming it was nothing more than a pudding recipe he had just dreamt up.

"I believe if we use a different kind of lard it will perk the flavor right up, don't you, Beatrice?"

"Sir, I'd like to see the document." The guard nagged with the hint that his patience was melting. Guy, though, had a better plan. He snatched the book from Edgar and began tearing through pages.

"Why would you even discuss Sheriff's orders in public, you moronic bastard?" He growled until coming across an interesting sheet with notes scribbled and hasty maps sketched out. "What is this?"

"I don't know, first time I'm seeing it." Edgar lied with a lighthearted tone.

"Sir Guy," the guard withdrew a dagger, "it has all the travel routes of Prince John's gold on it."

"Father?" Beatrice whispered.

"This is not good for either of you." Gisborne's man snarled as he roughly grabbed Edgar by the collar. He called out to other soldiers outside as Beatrice's crystal green eyes welled up with tears. It reminded Guy of how the lush green grass was drowned under so much rain only weeks ago. His anger tuned out her desperate cries to her father, demanding it not be true.

Without a word Gisborne took one of his henchman's pairs of handcuffs, worn down and stained with fear and resistance, and clasped it onto Beatrice's left wrist. She shot shocked bewilderment from her gaze to his, and he never looked away. She was sobbing, breaking, confused. She was also beautiful, and probably innocent. As the dark scenes of arrest Guy is so accustomed to surrounded them he knew he could not let this happen to her. His prison is hell, it changes people, scars them with melted flesh and mutated hearts. He would not let himself hurt her. Not like he did Marian. Not again.


	3. Empty Facade

The smell was so pungent, so thick, so sour that it had begun to make prisoners immune to any odor after a long period of time. Even as Beatrice sniffled her tears back her sinuses had been so rotted the stench didn't even matter.

"I just don't understand _why_ you had to do it!" she said, her voice broken up by crying.

"Beatrice, I told you to stop being so stupid. So trusting. Now you see how bad these people are, this is what they want to do to England! It's not hard, silly girl. Outlaws are good and law is bad, get it through your head." Edgar venomously bit at her. His accusations and name calling only hurt her more. It's not that Edgar didn't love his daughter, but how many years would it take for her to get a brain in her head? She wasn't much of an intelligent girl. As a matter of fact, just the other day she had mixed up her recipes and scrubbed the floors with adhesive instead of soaps.

"Well, I hope your good cause is worth putting me in prison, father! You're so selfish!" Beatrice exclaimed before crawling to the opposite corner of her cell, away from Edgar's confinement. At the top of spiraling stairs voices were heard leaking down the steps to the dank and musty dungeon. The only light available was rusty haze from lit torches in intervals on the walls. From around the corner appeared Guy of Gisborne, a handful of henchmen, and a short man dragging a floor-length coat behind him.

"So, you did a bit of treason, hmm?" The gray-haired man teased as he leant against Edgar's cell, "Just a teeny bit? Morsels of info here and there? Yeah?" he hosted sinister laughter that shook each prisoner's confidence loose from their bones. Beatrice watched as the man they called Sheriff barked and gnawed and swallowed up her father across the hall. She rotated her wrists in the D-shaped handcuffs to stretch out the soreness. Poisonous spores of threats glided through the hall as Vaisey grew more and more resentful of Hood's ally by the second. Eventually he banged on the cage and turned to the daughter.

"And you," the sly man gleamed, a sapphire shining from his rotting teeth, "my dear. What is it you did?" his voice was singing as if reading a child's book.

"Nothing." Guy rebutted for her.

"She was in the home with the other one sir, he kept them in a cookbook. She had to know." A guard interjected.

"I know nothing!" she cried, "why would I know what that was?"

"So you want me to believe that if you knew something, you would tell me?"

"… why wouldn't I?" she gave him a puzzled glance that made the Sheriff laugh. Vaisey crouched down in front of her with a wicked aura that pushed all air aside.

"How can my records be in your book, but you don't see them?" he bitterly spat.

"My lord, I'm a twenty year old girl, I can't read. That book was my mum's and I kept it when she died."

"Not like she could read if you taught her. She's dumb as a rock, Sheriff, I swear, she knew nothing." Edgar added in. Hotness swelled in the girl's face as she was jabbed at by her father again. This gave Vaisey incredible amusement whilst Guy's knuckles went white from his fists. How could everyone be so cruel to a girl who was actually innocent? He took a moment to remember everyone he had maimed who claimed innocence… he began to wonder for the first time if they were right. Either way, it did not detract from the fun of seeing crimson blood seep into the crevices of stone floors. But Beatrice was kind, and the only person Gisborne had met without a natural resistance to him and his army. The Sheriff did a quick double take between his right hand man and the prisoner. Chestnut curls, wide-eyed, damsel in distress… it did not take him long to figure out what was running through Guy's head.

As the men headed to supper, the Sheriff pounced on his hunch. He began the dance by humming a tune Marian was known to sweetly do around the garden. Once he figured Guy was uncomfortable enough we went for the kill.

"You know she's not Marian, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"That girl. In there. The 'oh boo-hoo I'm pretty and helpless oh Sir Guy!' That one. She's not Marian."

"You're right. She's committed fewer crimes than Marian ever had and yet you are treating her worse than you ever treated –"

"Gisborne, let it go! No one will love you! They can't, you are undesirable. When will that make sense?" Vaisey bit his tongue and drew in a sharp breath as Guy looked away. It was a form of art to know which nerve to strike next, much like playing piano, one key at a time to achieve a melody. "You don't need their love, my boy. They are but lepers! Here you have money, power, fame… isn't that what you want?" He placed a hand on the man in black but Guy quickly tugged away.

"Does it have to be one or the other?" he muttered.

"She is only in your head because she looks so much like Marian. She is just like her, minus all the whining and stubbornness, and where's the fun in that, hm? Throw her away like you do the other prisoners. It will be easier than you think." With a reptilian smile Vaisey casually began to proceed to his food. Guy, though, could not shake his words. What if Beatrice is like Marian but without all the bad features? He doesn't want some wild horse to train, he wants a woman. Could he have one?

It didn't matter, he figured. He is by no means strong enough to leave what he has, to abandon his vices. His addictions to violence and greed were like sirens that called to him, their warm and shapely bodies longing to hold him, their serenades luring him with magnetic strength, their breasts so soft to lie upon in utter despair… He was the emptiest façade of all. One of the most powerful men in England and he did not have the power or gall to handle his own life. He knew it to be true. With this depressing thought, the man of leather decided to go instead for a liquid supper up his chambers. There he spent the evening drinking, swearing, and one time even crying, into the night.


	4. It Looked So Easy

Sunlight shot down like lasers through the leafy canopy and awoke Sir Guy as he felt their heat cook into his thin and tired eyelids. Although refusing to open his eyes, Gisborne stirred himself awake with great resistance from his own mind. He felt a comforting coaxing inside to sleep some more, to fade off, to lie there with a heaviness so thick he would practically be dead. He remained up, though, once he realized he was in danger.

Guy instantly felt raw damage to his stomach; it was as if a battering ram had pounded into his flesh and bruised up the organs. At the same time he had a strong urge to roll over and vomit. When he did decide to look around him the hot sun seared into his vision like acid and clamped onto his headache like a vice. Gisborne's big blue eyes adjusted and he could take in where he was – Sherwood Forest. He drank a deep air into his chest. _Hood,_ he initially thought. Surely he was lying on the cold leaves of the moist ground because the outlaws had dragged him out and beat him senseless; when he touched his face, though, he felt no blood, no scar, nor a cut. Glancing over he noticed a copper colored dress curled up on the forest floor a few meters away with a petite girl tucked inside of it. All he could see were auburn braids, small cloth shoe covered feet, and anger. Had Robin Hood resorted to this much brute force over stupid provision lots?

Curiosity dragged the ailing man over to the other victim. He crawled himself lazily to her side as the fogginess slowly dissipated from his head. He swept aside fly away strands of hair to see that it was Beatrice lying unconscious under the shade of a high towering tree. Resting on her cheek was a deep wine colored bruise that seeped up into her lower left eye. Guy sat up against the hefty trunk of one of the nearby trees and began to prop her up against his chest. Beatrice hummed awake as Gisborne quickly looked around the grounds, his attitude like that of a scared and cornered animal. His left hand slid down to instinctually cradle a dagger before Hood's men could return for another brawl. He flinched when Beatrice reached up and ran a hand on his cheek, her other arm snaking around him for a hug, and grinned at him.

"We are truly free." She whispered with a dash of giddiness as Guy's muscles all shrunk up. Her touch was alarming to him; it felt very welcome as he had been craving intimacy like water, but by the same token he was immensely startled by the suddenness and forward attitude she had. He took her hand off his face.

"Are you okay? Where are you hurt?" his baritone notes were aimed at her whilst he still played lookout with his eyes.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she causally replied, "this is the only hit he got in."

"Robin Hood will pay for this." Gisborne connected his eyes to hers with sincere promise. Beatrice, though, screwed up her face.

"Robin Hood is real? Like, he's and actual person? Not a story?"

"I wish that was the case. But they are the men that attacked us –"

"What?"

"Last night, they had to have –"

"Look, I know I may not be brilliant," she sat herself up and distanced their chests, "but I'm not forgetful. I know what happened and I can't imagine why you would lie about it, but not being honest with me is the worst way for us to start this thing."

"What thing?" Guy was sensing an itch of irritation creep up his spine. He had been dragged out of the castle somehow, weakened, and now he awakes to a silly girl's delusional gibberish? Her olive green eyes peered right through the back of his head.

"I knew it." Beatrice let out a heavy breath and shook her head. She pushed herself away from him and stood, rustling the blanket of foliage on the ground as she took several steps to a different trunk.

"You tell me what the hell is going on right now."

"I am just never good enough," a sob came out after hesitation, "you know? Who was I to think a guy like you could really believe I was worth it –"

"I will not play your juvenile games; I do not have time for this! You want to cry and complain, go home. Go whine to your delinquent father. The grown up here needs to fix this." Gisborne bitterly roared.

"You know what? Most people are nasty drunks, but you, you are a disgusting sober man. You are vile and poisonous, alcohol brings out the only good in you at all!" she retorted back with redness in her face. As Gisborne opened his mouth he did concede that part of her was right. The last thing he could remember was sulking in his own quarters, a cup of cider in hand. Surely he didn't drink that much, did he? After a mental tally he lost count at six tall mugs of perry cider.

"Shit." He murmured to himself. Guy choked and coughed and suffocated on the large amount of his own pride he had to swallow before approaching Beatrice. "You said you know what happened… are we in danger? Did I… did I hurt you?" he motioned to her swollen cheek.

"No, you saved me. But we may be in trouble. We are runaways now…" she could see the confusion on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I guess I will start at the beginning…"

Moonlight was swallowed up in the dense black clouds of night at Nottingham castle. The light had been gobbled up almost as instantly as all the alcohol Guy could manage to get his hands on; the Sheriff had stabbed him far too many times. He couldn't discern whether he was angry at his boss' delight in humiliation, depressed over his losing Marian to his vile enemy in the brush, or terrified like a child over his faintly glowing ember of affection for this new girl. He had a feeling it was a swirling storm of all these issues that spiraled in his mind and was tearing down his sense of sanity. Navigating the staircases were proving strenuous, too, as booze had cut off his ability to control his own feet, much less pilot a straight line. He found himself bumbling into the dungeon to sort the pieces of the puzzle out. Perhaps if he could just talk to Beatrice, he could decipher what these odd feelings were.

Within the humid and dank cellar of stone he saw her cell, which was just opposite the stairs, was empty. Her father sat in his own prison, shelled up in anguish at each yelp coming from one of the torture cells. In his drunken manner Gisborne took longer than usual to assemble the clues but found that he had come down at the beginning of her interrogation for Robin's whereabouts.

Beatrice was chained by both ankles and wrists to the wall in the back, sweating from fear and the fire that heated piping hot metal with which to melt her skin from the bone. One of the captains of the guard had the honor, and obvious pleasure, of extracting information from her this evening.

"I told you I don't know! Please, please, I don't know anything!" Beatrice cried hot tears as her face flushed a burning red.

"You're just a lying bitch," the captain cynically laughed before punching his bare knuckles into her face, "I told you to share where the rest of the plans are!"

"Hey!" GIsborne called as he approached the room. He went up the two steps before entering flawlessly while a craze flew through his eyes. He was the operator of this horrific place; he knew there were no rules, no limits, no lives spared.

"Sir Guy," The guard saluted with wickedness in his grin, "Come to help, eh? This little lady here has no respect for men… I was just about to teach her some."

Beatrice's eyes bugged and let loose a stream of tears as her torturer began to unclasp his belt. Guy felt an unparalleled brute force of rage overwhelm his body. It was as if he had been commandeered by a minotaur as his veins coursed and pounded with blood of contempt. It would certainly not be the first time a prisoner was raped here, but it would certainly not happen to her.

Guy reached his gloved hand over to the fire pit and withdrew a steaming rod, boiling red and orange from its exposure to heat. Its glow reflected upon his face when he raised it up slowly above the guard, who was bent over to remove his trousers. With a deep inhale Guy swung down, bashing the poker into his worker's skull. The man tumbled to the stone floor with an animalistic scream, turning his head to the side. When Gisborne went to pull it out, the hook on the rod had lodged into the bone, making a tearing crunch as he ripped it out of the cranium on the second try. His drunken eyes glazed over as he watched the guard's expression die upon his next swing into the head. He nearly didn't even hear Beatrice yelping in terror on the third strike, either. A pool of matter and blood leaked out between the two from where the back half of the soldier's skull used to be. Guy stuffed the poker back into the flames and went to unhook the girl as the smell and sizzle of boiling blood radiated from the pit.

The pair sped out of the dungeon, finesse less than perfect without Gisborne's sobriety, and fled down the gray stone steps to the courtyard. Workers had no questions for their leader as he snagged a cart horse, unhooked the buggy, and lifted Beatrice onto the back. In a frantic version of romantic fantasy, they rode off out of the gate and charged into the woods. The alcohol in his stomach, though, could not handle the ride for long.

A few minutes into the bush and he was vomiting behind a fallen log whilst Beatrice got her head back together. The night was exceptionally dark and it was difficult to see each other, but once Gisborne was emptied he went to sit across from the frazzled girl. The past twenty four hours had altered her life beyond recognition. She had ridden front seat through flirtatious lunch, accused prisoner, and now escapee all with a cloudiness of misinformation.

"I will not let them hurt you, not for something you didn't do." He panted, dehydrated from his poor choices.

"I don't know what to say… you have returned my minor kindness with all of this. I'm blown away!"

"You are too beautiful and too sweet to fall in with the likes of that castle." He reached over to touch her face and hoped that she was blushing.

"But what now?"

"I don't know… we live. You live. I live. We live… perhaps together?" his drunken string of words was not nearly as poetic as he imagined, "I am a man of wealth. I am a man of title. We can run to France, live without this Sheriff and this damn forest. We can start over!"

"Start over? I guess I never started much of a life in the first place… start over with a handsome man like you? Who could say no?" Beatrice wore her naïve smile as he cupped her hands into his. The alcohol fueled his imagination for greatness as he considered ruling over France.

"We'll go to my cousin's farm, he has a cottage near Carcassonne where we can get started. We can buy anything, do anything, have a million babies!" the glow from his voice matched his face as Beatrice laughed at his joy. In this moment, he was just as foolish as she was. The air fell quiet after she agreed to run away with him. Insects creaked and chimed as drowsiness made its way to their camp.

"I've never seen a man die before. It looked so… so easy."

"It gets easier every time."

"Hm." Beatrice rested her head on his lap. Neither of them said another word before falling off into a heavy slumber, her mind running off with a candied fantasy, and his chugging to combat its way back to sobriety. If only things could actually be as simple as they seemed that night.


	5. Fancy Seeing You

"Shit!" Guy exhaled again, "Carcassonne? France? I don't think you realize how far away that is."

"You are one of the most important men in England, surely you know a way." Beatrice boasted his title with a flashy smile that warmed his heart. It was so enchanting to be recognized as the great and noble man he was, but in a flash Gisborne felt the ground slip from under his feet. If he truly did storm out of Nottingham with a prisoner he had no name. He would be stripped naked down to the skin of all awards and honors. The castle he had been given by Vaisey transformed into sand before his eyes and flowed down around him, trickling through his gripping fingers; he was nobody. Again he swore in front of the girl. His skin grew hot as he remembered that all his fame in France was nothing but lies and ego boosts. Guy of Gisborne had worked himself into a very tight, dark, and narrow corner.

"Well, well, well," a voice came from behind them, "Fancy seeing you 'round these parts!" The couple turned to see Robin Hood slink down off a mossy tree branch and land a few yards away. His cheer was uncalled for and uncomforting to the man in black leather. Gisborne tore his sword from his sheath and dug his heels into the ground.

"Hood…"

"Whoa, now, not in front of the ladies!" Hood gigglingly put his hands in the air and approached Beatrice. The outlaw winked and held her slender hand to give it a kiss as Guy narrowed his glare. "What do you want out here, Gisborne?" With an element of childishness Robin was hesitant to release Beatrice's hand; he liked holding all the cards in the game today. The juices of Guy's brain pumped and crunched to find an answer but all mechanics froze when pieces of the outlaw gang materialized from surrounding hedges. Out came Djaq, Allan, and – Marian. Her blue eyes dodged his, displaying just as much discomfort as Guy felt. A pipe burst within his chest and emotions flooded, mixed, fought, burned. He was so full of disappointment and rage that he lost self-control.

"We are heading out of the forest, I suggest you do the same sometime." Guy briefly muttered.

"We are going to France." Beatrice chirped with giddiness, glancing her emerald eyes with pride up to Guy's stubbled jaw. The outlaws were taken aback. Robin formulated what plots there could be in store for the neighboring country across the water. Had Vaisey hired an army? Was Prince John going on a conquest?

"I heard you stormed out of the castle last night," Marian added in. Her milky skin was covered in a chocolate brown tunic that shimmered as she came up closer to him, "is everything alright?" The strong-headed girl hated him, resented his treatment of her and others, but she still knew he was a human being. Whatever their past, good or bad, they shared years of their lives only rooms away – she knew this was out of character for him to bolt with a prisoner. Gisborne sneered, his nostrils smashing up, his disgust with her shown to the world. He trudged one step closer to her so that he towered over her short frame, his gaze almost omniscient, his teeth gnarling for the pounce.

"Everything's perfect without you. We're going to get married." He bit with vengeance. His intention was to harm Marian's heart, but as Beatrice squealed and wrapped her arms around his waist he realized all he done was dig himself a deeper grave.

_Shit!_ He thought again. His clear blue eyes glanced down to sweet Beatrice, her young skin against his hard armor, the glee in her face. She looked practically proud of him. She had known him a week and yet she was over the moon at his proposal. Guy was confused by her lack of caution but couldn't care less – Marian's mouth had fallen open a little bit. He pulled his arm around his fiancee's narrow waist and held her tightly to his side, his smirk choking out the breaths of all the criminals.

Djaq stared in sheer bewilderment at Beatrice – she _wanted_ to marry a man with the history of Sir Guy of Gisborne? Robin had crumpled his face into a ball as well as Allan. Meanwhile Marian, well, Marian did not move. It took several moments for her to pick up her composure from the forest floor and sew it back together. Her lips pursed and she smiled tightly.

"I'm happy for you, Guy. Really. You know, Robin and I have talked about getting married for years, so I think it's great that it's time both of us grew up. I hope all goes well. I will be thinking of you at my wedding." She slyly flashed the ornate stone ring Robin had given her months ago. Though she used to hide it from Guy, now she flaunted it with malice. Gisborne could feel a bruise in the shape of that ring in his pride.

"Have fun living like the pigs you both are." He whispered to her.

"Robin!" shrieked Much from an anonymous canopy tree. The outlaw tried to ignore the need to go but he was torn by his duty. Wafting through the air came the melodies of swords clashing against one another and armor being pricked by arrows. The wickedness that smeared on Gisborne's face was revolting as the outlaws reluctantly abandoned their confrontation with him. Marian paced backwards to watch him as they turned to leave.

She couldn't quite place what she was feeling inside her stomach. She suddenly felt so empty yet heavy as if stuffed with stones. The leader of the pack could see that Guy had rattled her. The sourness of Robin's hurt pride aided him in his battle, and all the other party members could tell just how Marian truly felt about Gisborne moving on. She refused to believe that could be the case, however, and bravely fought for King and country. It wasn't until later that afternoon when summer rain trickled through the tree leaves that Marian let herself shiver from her confusion.


	6. Butterflies

*** Thanks for reading, guys! Feel free to leave a review after the chapter and let me know what you think/want to see!***

Cool rain matted down Gisborne's hair as he trudged through the shining wet leaves of Sherwood Forest. Mud clung to their shoes as pattering water nudged each bit of foliage above them, sprinkling the pair and adding difficulty to the hike. Guy knew he had taken a horse from Nottingham when he left, but what had he done with it? The stallion was nowhere to be found the next morning. He was not concerned about it starving or becoming frightened; rather, he despised the footwork he had to do over shaky footpaths.

"Ah!" Beatrice gasped with a squeak. He flipped around to see her lose traction on a hill, the slippery ground taking her down to her knees. She landed on all fours with both her braids and her cheek buried in the dirt. As she sat upright her eyes twinkled with disorientation. Guy leaned over and took her filthy hands in his to pull her up, the copper fabric of her clothes stained by the woods, her fingers trembling a bit.

"You alright?"

"I think so, yes," she replied, "You didn't by chance miss the bit where I sounded like a wounded deer being sick, did you?" Her cheeks flushed quickly, looking like two dew misted roses.

"Unfortunately, no. I was there for that." Guy took a chunky gloved finger and wiped at the smears upon her face and jaw. Standing tall she came just to his chin and upon the hill she was even lower. However, her vibrant eyes were impossible to miss even from up there. They were truly windows opened wide to her soul. The cream sleeves of her dress had become transparent after being soaked and the curls she boasted dwindled with weight. They had been hiking for the better part of three hours by this point.

Guy pulled to the side and swept away straying branches of a berry bush to create an alcove for rest. He leaned his back against the hefty trunk of a tree and helped Beatrice down to sit next to him. She put her spine on the tree as well and let out a sigh of fatigue. Guy glanced over and could not help himself from the sight of her waterlogged white blouse underneath the tunic; as Beatrice closed her eyes and drew in another breath his eyes were attached to watching her perfectly round breasts rise up and down. He swallowed his desire hard back down into the pit of his stomach. There was no doubt she was beautiful – and nearly half his age. However, this was hardly the time or place for a seduction attempt. They were far too tired, anyways.

"I'm not going to pretend to know why you are being so generous to me," Beatrice softly said to him, "But thank you."

"I don't believe you did anything wrong." He sniffed as he adjusted the pant fabric that clung so desperately to his knee.

"You're taking me out of England, I doubt you do this with all your prisoners. You're leaving everything…" 

"Why are you leaving your life behind?" Guy questioned her, "You're not sacrificing any less."

"Well," Beatrice puckered her lips for a moment of reflection, "I have been stuck in the same house for twenty years. I work too hard for people who care too little and pay me cheaply, seeing as how my father can't work and I can't read or write it's my only option. I don't really… I don't have friends. People make fun of me behind my back all the time, even my dad. I'm done with it."

"Can't be that bad." He shortly replied.

"You are a good man who wants to drop everything and start new, like me. You're giving me an opportunity. Why would I not run away with you?"

"If you've been in Nettlestone for twenty years you know I'm not – well, not a well-liked man." Gisborne's eyebrows furrowed with discomfort. He didn't necessarily regret anything he has done, any blood he has spilled, any family he has shattered. He did, however, hate that there was no other story to him. He thought perhaps Marian could sense that he was, at the end of the day, a man with human needs. He needs attention. He needs concern. But the less the villagers gave to him the more he took from them to cover his wounds.

"I've heard that you hurt people sometimes. Cut tongues, burn crops… It's ridiculous how much people gossip. I mean, everybody talks nowadays." Her eyes were dead set on him. Guy felt a frown creep onto his face in confusion. "I mean, it's just evil to talk like that about someone. I don't believe anything until I see it for myself."

"You trust me with your life, without knowing me, but having heard about the torture that goes on in the castle?"

"Well, I tell you, they're out to ruin everyone. Last year this tailor got offended that I got the same dress as her, so she started putting it round that I hired myself out to pay for it. Then it turned into me being a courtesan on the side and having sex with my boss to keep my job… so I know how you feel." The crow's feet around Gisborne's eyes deepened as he narrowed his gaze into hers. She was serious; she was hand on a bible serious. He wasn't sure whether she believed her falsified crimes were as awful as his or if his violence was played down so much in her mind that it was negligible. He cleared his throat and blinked, rubbing the scruff on his neck.

"The things they say about me are true. I have fought in wars, I have killed many people, I have stolen thousands of pounds… I despise the King and I drink far too much. You are too young, and too sweet, to get mixed up in my life." He watched out into the forest as squirrels sprinted across the floor to reach a dry home, "If you go far enough south no one will find you. I doubt the Sherriff is even looking for you –"

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"Do you think we are together?" The surprise in his voice stung Beatrice's heart like puncturing icicles.

"I don't know…" she eventually whispered. Guy rubbed his face into his hands with the stress. What the hell has even happened to him in the past two days?

"Look, Beatrice, I don't know what's happening. I don't know who you are, I don't know who I – I can't do this. I can't leave everything I have built."

"Build something better. Do you not want to, or do has someone told you that you can't?" He froze as she read him like a book. He looked at her with gentle intensity; how did she understand him after two days? "You can be anything you want. Learn from your mistakes and do better. Do you want to fight in more wars? Do you want to steal?"

"I don't know…" He turned away. Beatrice sat up onto her knees and cupped his rugged face in her milky hands, their noses inches apart.

"Do you want to hurt people? Do you want to lie awake at night and crave more? Do you want to be told how to live by other people?"

"No."

"Do you want all this blood-money and hate?"

"No." Guy shook his head and placed his palms on her cheeks, matching her pose, nudging closer.

"Change your situation," a light grin parted her pink lips.

"I don't know you." He whispered.

"My name is Beatrice Howell, I'm twenty, I go to church twice a week, I hate pears, I don't like caterpillars but I love butterflies."

"Lovely to meet you." Gisborne chuckled with a drop of rain running down the ridge of his nose.

"And you?"

"Um, Guy of Gisborne, thirty-seven, I haven't been to church since I was old enough to dress myself, I like pears, and… I don't know what I think about butterflies."

"Smashing. So, south then, Guy?"


	7. Every Man Has His Price

The metal coins clinked as Beatrice handed them over to the carriage driver. She was filled with gratitude, it is not every day someone will give you a lift across several cities. Guy departed the cart and immediately headed down the lane searching for their next mode of transport. They were, after all, still in the north of England and still on the run. As she caught up Beatrice ran her hand down his back.

"We are just south of Leicester." She chirped with a spring in her step. Her shoes were still caked with mud from their excursion from the woods to the river Trent before they finally hitched a ride.

"We ought to be able to buy a horse and go ourselves." He planned aloud. They passed a fruit stand with ripe peaches and apples on display, the sun glinting off the skin, the sweet aroma wafting over. It was a gorgeous summer day that for once did not seem threatened by wind and rain. They seemed to have arrived at a weekend market where families sold their hard work for a few pence, likely storing the change for a hard winter. Gisborne felt a slap on his back as Beatrice squealed his name. He watched her prance giddily to a tailor's booth and pull a lilac gown. The neckline was low and edged with scalloped lace, the fabric flowing softly to the ground, the price on Gisborne's mind.

"No." He immediately told her as he continued to travel along the path.

"Guy!" She whined, holding the dress up to her body. Her chestnut curls went down over the shoulders of it and twirled as she did an excited hop.

"Beatrice – we are not here to play dress up." He commanded with faint annoyance. They both ignored the desperate salesman as she put it back down with a huff. Her copper dress was still streaked with dirt from the forest, her shoes solid with muck, and him looking no better.

"Guy, we are here to start over. I will not start our life covered in filth and looking like some awful cow-wench." She stood her ground next to the tailor.

"Do you mean a wench that is a cow, or…?" His smart ass attitude was meant to bite as he came up to her, using his tall stature as a method of intimidation. He raised his eyebrows with a seriousness that would discipline any child and stood to display an alpha male boldness. Beatrice popped her chin up and stood as tall as she could, stretching to him, but did not flinch.

"You must be hot in your gear, too. Don't tell me you really want to wear that the rest of the way." She eyed him up and down in the uncomfortable leather shield he survived in. Gisborne hadn't noticed until she said anything, yet the humidity was aching his skin. He felt like a lamb being boiled inside his armor. But surely he could not be without a menacing look – he demanded respect as a noble. Worse off, he could not survive outside of a hardened shell that repelled all things from touching his sensitive and mortally wounded soul. He never felt rain, fear, or pain. On the outside, at least. Beatrice took advantage of his silence and pulled a shirt for him, in yellow none the less.

"No." Guy nearly had a heart attack at the idea of wearing such a thing, which brought her into a laughing fit. Beatrice tried carefully and grabbed a deep green top yet decided against it just as quickly. She then yanked a royal blue one and held it to him, pride in her eyes as if she were dressing her son.

"Look at you." She grinned. Guy took it from her hands and balled it up, holding it low and looking to the side. His fragile pride could not handle her display of him as a model. "Oh, and you should have these brown trousers with it."

"Black." He interjected, reaching over her hand for a different pair. Beatrice bit her lip then scanned the table.

"Fine, but I get new shoes."

"What? We are not playing –"

"Fine, I will pick your stuff for you." She grabbed at bright fabrics and expensive silks.

"Beatrice – get your damn shoes and let's leave already." Guy grumbled. With excitement she selected tan shoes and her lavender gown. Reluctantly Sir Guy forked over the cash. He hated himself for this indulgence, and yet she looked like a child getting a sweet treat. An ember of pleasure smoldered in him. He did this. He is responsible for her being this cheerful; it felt amazing to have given someone something good to remember. He made sure to note a mental image of her smile.

"How long have you been married?" The tailor inquired, giving back a few pence in change.

"What?"

"You two." He nodded to Beatrice.

"We're not." Gisborne returned with a stone voice. He took the cash and went to leave. The pair continued down the dusty trail for several minutes. Beatrice abruptly took his hand and held him still, leaning over to him.

"Thank you, Guy." She whispered in his ear. Beatrice rolled up onto her tip toes and delicately pressed a kiss onto his cheek, the warmth of her lips spreading a tingle down through his body. Gisborne turned a bit and felt every desire to kiss her there and then. He pictured it, wanted it, and hesitated to do it. Beatrice missed the signal and continued her stroll, leaving him a step behind. "So we get a horse and ride to the coast?"

"We ought to be able to get to Oxford by tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night? How? The picture of England is so small on a map." Her green eyes were astounded as he looked down to her. Yet again, she was nothing but serious. Whinnying drifted up to them seconds after the tell-tale manure scent – they had found a stable. Guy pulled his glove tightly down to his wrist and approached the building without reluctance. The stable was nothing more than five cells for large horses with rusting troughs and patchy thatched roofing, however, there were three potential rides in sight. A young man, no more than Beatrice's age, sat sweaty in a corner pounding away at a horseshoe attached to a muscular mare.

"How much for your white mare?" Gisborne asked, motioning to the medium sized horse to the right. The boy glanced up and sneered.

"None of them are for sale, get on then." He scoffed and went back to work. After a sniff Guy retrieved a bag of coins from his belt, making sure to rustle them into making a sweet melody.

"How much?" The question was less of a question this time and came out with a rumble from his stomach.

"My brother's horses aren't for sale. Go on!"

"Sir," Beatrice butted in as she wrapped herself around Guy's right arm, "please. My husband and I are trying to get home to Oxford… I am pregnant and we want to rest at home."

"Not my problem." The man didn't even bother to look up this time. Guy took in a short and sharp breath then snapped upright.

"Beatrice, why don't you go find a spot to change clothes, hm?" He dismissed her with his clear eyes and, the moment she left, he fell back into character. Gisborne torn the mallet from the worker's hand and chucked it out across the floor, slamming it into a trough. All the animals kicked up in a panic over the sound.

"Oi!"

"Look here, I am not going to offer you money again."

"Mate, they're not for –" The boy clenched up as Guy grasped his shirt collar, the fabric crunching around his windpipe.

"We're taking that horse." Gisborne pounded an uppercut into his stomach twice and then dropped the kid onto the dirt, leaving him to writhe and moan. He nonchalantly went to the gate door and flicked open the hinge, gently gathering the leading reigns for the mare. From the corner he withdrew her saddle and without a word he took the beast and departed.

As mockingbirds chirped in the summer sun the man in leather rounded the stable and found his companion just as she had finished changing – in fact, he caught her in the last moments as the gown was dropped to tumble to the ground. For just a moment he drank in the shape of her legs, her mid-thigh enticing him to have her now. He flashed back to the last time he examined her body and envisioned all the parts together under his fingertips.

"You got the horse?" She gladly asked, snapping him from his inappropriate fantasy.

"Every man has a price." He slyly grinned. Beatrice handed over his new clothing.

"Your turn, then we can go."

"Right." He took the outfit and found his privacy, yet waited to move. He did not feel comfortable taking away his armor, his life support, the thing that remained through all these years even after he abandoned his post. After all, protection like this had saved his life many times. It kept him from feeling Marian's crocodile tears on his flesh. But he realized it would also keep him from feeling her, from sensing Beatrice, prevent him from finally releasing all his torment and throwing away all traces of Vaisey. All along Guy knew he could not be the father figure he needed, but oh how he tried to make the Sherriff fit his needs. Maybe what he truly needed was change after all. Besides, it was bloody hot.

Sir Guy emerged from the trees a new man, outfitted in deep blue and dark waving locks of shaggy hair. Beatrice bit her lip with an enormous grin at seeing his physical transformation – he was always a looker, but wow. Gisborne stuffed the saddle bags with their old garments and his daggers before setting off. He took Beatrice's hand and led her to the horse, then firmly planted his bare hands on her waist and lifted her side saddle onto the back of the mare. Now he stood eye level with her neck and imagined how odd it must for her to see him from this angle.

"Thank you." Beatrice smiled. It seemed she always has a happy face on, one that told him constantly that he would be okay. He ran his left hand through her auburn locks and then his right, feeling each curl as it stretched in his palms. The short sleeves of his tunic allowed his elbows to brush her knees, the soft fabric of her dress caressing his skin for the first time in so so many years. She tenderly placed her hands on the back of his arms and felt the muscle that accompanies master swordsmanship. Her bright emerald eyes looked right into his blue pools and there they sat, in silence, in heated stillness. Beatrice leaned down slightly to be closer to him and he took his chance.

Guy stepped forward to her and pressed his lips to hers, his hand holding tight to her silky hair and her mouth parted to allow him in. He fit perfectly between her pink rosy lips, and they tasted just as good as he imagined for the past week. He did not understand what he felt for her, he didn't understand what she thought of him, but damn it was good to feel a kiss. He could not stop giving her small kisses for the rest of the afternoon.

Deep within Nottingham, however, Marian was carved hollow wishing she could have it so easy as Guy of Gisborne.


	8. I Will Always Come Back to You

"With all due respect," Vaisey gritted his teeth with hostility, "I can't imagine how you think Nottingham can do your work without Gisborne."

"I cannot fathom why you think he is here." Prince John darted back, the calmness in his voice belying his eyes.

"My lord, I am very sure that when he left Nottingham he came to you –"

"I have not seen him since last winter, Sherriff Vaisey… you don't know where he is?" The Prince contained both wickedness and accusation in his smile, shoving a hot tingle in the short man of Nottingham. Vaisey sheepishly put his hands in the air and chuckled.

"I guess not."

Miles from London Gisborne was pressing down the dirt with his horse's hooves, desperately trying to claw at as much road as he could before the sunlight slipped away. Pink and orange dabbled the horizon as night closed in, clouds streaking the sky, darkness combatting the sunset. Beatrice held herself onto Guy's waist as they pushed through and emerged south from Oxford. The ribs of the mare heaved up and down as she grew more and more tired. From the left Guy noticed the rustling of brush. His ears piqued at the minute noise, years of training kicking into activity, fingers gripping tight on the reigns. Suddenly he saw them – foot soldiers for Nottingham. The guards and their horses poked between the trees only yards away, instantly panicking Gisborne. Absentmindedly his muscles yanked the horse's leads as he sharply attempted to turn off the road. The shocked animal kicked up onto her back legs, hooves scrambling, eyes bewildered. The cry of the horse nearly drowned out Beatrice's scream as she tumbled to the ground.

Guy looked to see her on the dirt and jumped from the horse. His eyes went back to the woods and grew as he saw the soldiers hurrying over to them. They must have heard the horse's whinny, he assumed. The same men that he had trained were on the hunt towards the couple. Quickly thinking on his feet Gisborne swatted the mare and shooed her off, their only ride, in an effort to divert attention. He knelt to Beatrice and held her elbows to help her up. With a wince she yelled again and collapsed onto him.

"Dammit." He muttered with worry. As the animal took off down the path Guy scooped up the short brunette in his arms, her feet and hair dangling off his elbows, and pulled her into some shrubs. Guy set her down and softly set his finger to her lips to instruct her to keep quiet. Beatrice nodded as he stalked a few steps to either side. His sharp vision scanned feverishly until deciding they must have pursued the horse.

"Why would they follow us," he pondered allowed when he returned to her, "They shouldn't be coming this far out." Beatrice shook her head with a grimace; her thin eyebrows crumpled together, tiny beads of sweat dotting her forehead. She pushed away a curl and doubled over. "Are you okay?" Gisborne asked with clear terror.

"I don't know."

"What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

"It's my ankle." Beatrice answered as she dug her nails into her calf. Without hesitation or permission Gisborne shoved up the bottom half of her dress to examine it. Within such little time her right ankle had already swollen, the flesh of it tinting in red and hues of purple, the size making the definition between foot and calf difficult to distinguish. She was trying her best to bottle up tears in an attempt to look brave in his presence. One or two, however, slipped out down her round cheek.

"This is going to hurt." He honestly told her before placing both hands on the afflicted joint. Beatrice grunted loudly as he squeezed. Guy's face was covered in seriousness and drops of concern as he pressed to try and feel the bone inside. Each time she yelped out in pain he bit his lip a little harder and felt a pang of tragedy in his stomach. He was unsettled knowing that he was causing her pain.

"Guy, please stop!" Beatrice begged, shifting her weight, as he manipulated her foot and spun it in circles both ways. Gisborne kept his clear blue eyes on her foot as he soothingly shushed her.

"It doesn't look broken," Guy assured her as he set her foot back onto the soil, "just sprained. You probably fell onto it the wrong way." He gave a meek smile to her mint colored eyes when she thanked him. Only now did their surroundings occur to Gisborne. Beatrice sat before him with her legs a bit apart, the soft purple dress folded up to her mid-thigh. His breath became hostage in his lungs, unable to escape, as his heart frenzied up. Her legs were milky and slim, apart from the enflamed ankle. Hundreds of heated fantasies laced through his mind in one moment. She sheepishly tugged the gown back down but he slapped his hands on top of hers.

"Guy –"

"Wait." He commanded, looking up at her face then back down to her body. Carefully he brushed his fingers to her knee and caressed down the curve of her calf before circling back up. Their eyes locked. Gisborne gave her the grin of a schoolboy with the excitement of a sinner. Beatrice's smile was half fake in return.

"I don't know that you should be doing this." She whispered when his calloused palms, worn from battle, slid up the top of her thigh

"Don't you like it?"

"Don't you go to church?"

"There's nothing there for people like me," he scoffed, "Besides, look at us. We don't have to live by their rules anymore. We can make our own lives. And it will take your mind off the pain." Guy suavely leant in and gave her a slow kiss. Romance could be tasted on their lips as it bubbled inside of Beatrice. Gisborne, too, felt a sheet of ice melt within him; though he would never admit, of course, that he was infected with a fizzing of more than just physical desire. He looked again to her petite body and realized that her shape and warm skin was attractive to him in more than one way. Of course he felt starved for physical intimacy with her, but there was something about looking at Beatrice that made his heart happy. Gently she put her thighs together.

"You're gonna have to give me a ring first." Beatrice had tenderness in her smile. Gisborne felt his selfishness whisper that he should ignore her refusal. He was, after all, a mighty noble with a right to everything. Every single thing he desired he deserved, whether she would think so or not. Guy had made sure to climb to a position where he could have whatever he craved in his hands.

But, for the first time, he realized that he wanted to have her be safe more than he wanted to have her to himself. Gisborne was shocked as he unfolded the dress back down to Beatrice's feet. When she stroked the beard on his chin Guy felt a fuzz of giddiness. _Crap_, he realized,_ I am in love with her._ Considering he had abandoned his life with her one would think that falling in love would be necessary. For Gisborne, it was terrifying. When had romance ever worked out for him? It was an opportunity to be tortured inside, to seal up feelings, and to be smashed like a bottle on the floor when she eventually decides that she doesn't need him. Gisborne was scared as hell to think that he had started to put Beatrice's needs and wants before his very own. How could he go to sleep at night with the fear lingering that she may not develop the same necessity for him? With Maid Marian he had waited eternities for her to approach him with adoration and, alas, it never happened. Should he instead make the first move? The way she smiled and made a joke from anything intrigued him in a way he had never known… Guy did not want to repeat the loss of Marian. He could not lose her. He would have to tell her how he felt. Gisborne set his hand on the back of her head and ran his thumb back and forth.

"Beatrice," he gulped, "I –" Suddenly Beatrice put her lips to him again. Her tenderness was not any less than always, her sincerity obvious. Her taste absorbed the words from his mouth as she kissed him.

"Don't worry, Guy, I'm not angry. I just… want to wait a bit. Okay?"

"Y-Yes. Yep. I, uh, I agree." Gisborne pulled back and brushed his hands on his black trousers, looking to the sky to see nighttime crawling forward.

"How do we get to France now?" She worriedly asked, referring to the loss of their horse. He looked into her stare that mirrored a child's. Guy adored her youth.

"We can't get anywhere tonight, not on that ankle."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Sleep on it, heal. We will have a plan by morning… I'm going to collect some wood for a fire."

"Okay, be careful. Come back soon!" Beatrice chirped. Guy turned to look at her as he walked into the brush.

"I will always come back to you. I promise."


	9. No Questions Asked

After more than a week he had done it. Gisborne had hunted, shivered, sweated, and ached for more than a week, but now he had done it. His lungs clung affectionately to the thin and salty air that flowed around him. Guy rubbed his hand to his face, his fingers mingling with the whiskers of his chin; for eleven days he had been without a mirror to shave in and his beard was excitedly growing out. His hands loosely held onto the reigns of their strawberry horse as they paced down the rocky path, the smell letting them know they were so close to the shore, the taste of the oxygen tingling with their future. Guy looked to the stallion that he had purchased in London that boasted the beautiful Beatrice on its back. Her ankle had for the most part healed, but she still became fatigued on it quickly, the ligaments crying out at the weight of walking across England. She smiled down to him with a warmth that matched the summer sun that was etched into the sky above them.

Gisborne slowed the horse as they approach a steep hill going downwards; at the bottom they saw nothing but vast beaches and boating docks. Tall, craggy cliffs hung with moss encircled the sandy coast. The couple filed down the slope as both of their minds were captivated by the scene unfolding before them. Pink beach roses hung peacefully from the ledges and natural walls, their petals blown gently on the sand with the breeze, the swishing of waves creating a soundtrack as they collided with the coast. Beatrice was swept away; she had never seen a beach before in her life. The short girl did not attempt to disguise her awe at the sights and smells. Gisborne, too, was speechless – the last time he was here his body was being shipped off to the Holy Lands. Blade in hand, blood dripping from his mind, he had slaughtered so many Saracens in so little time. His duel with Robin of Locksley and his infuriating hatred for Richard the Lionheart all rolled onto him and slammed his heart as if the waves were crashing into him. But, that was nearly three years ago when the ship set off for Acre. Again Guy looked to Beatrice. Whether or not he wanted to be that man, he did not want to carry those burdens any longer. Each day was heavy as he drug cemented memories behind him.

They arrived onto the dock with clear haste to cross the channel. He helped his companion off of the horse, careful to not press weight into her foot, and held her hand all the way to the bustle of sailors. Wooden ships, some large some small, rocked on the crisp water on both side of the wooden platform. Clusters of men heaved barrels and duffel bags with wads and rolls of rope with choppy commands and little patience. Most of the men had scraggled facial hair and salt worn wrinkles carved into their faces. Needless to say, Beatrice did not quite feel like she fit into this place. Most people on the dock stared with no remorse or respect of privacy; they did not care that she felt covered in crawling eyes that snaked around her skin and through her dress. The sulk Gisborne wore was no different than in Nottingham. With precision he analyzed each vessel: that one was heavily inventoried and regulated by a company, this one too small, and here far too many drunkards to stay afloat. They were in need of a ship with space and a void for the morals against bribery and smuggling. Near the end of the moist planks he found their most fitting opportunity in a travel worn man coated in frosted gray hair. Guy nodded to bundles of wool that were being stowed on the vessel.

"Big shipment."

"Indeed… some of England's finest." The sailor mentioned without paying much attention to them.

"Surely you still have room for people on that thing." Gisborne's solid eyes did not deviate.

"For my people, yes."

"Any room for some extra crowns?"

"Ha! Don't think you have enough, mate." The captain sniffed with a tint of sourness in his stare. Guy did not flinch before tossing a bag of golden coins onto the railing between the two men. As the seafarer reached for the pouch, Gisborne slapped his hand onto the leather bag.

"Safe passage to France, no questions asked."

"Are you criminals?" He looked them up and down.

"No questions." Growled Gisborne as his grip tightened on the cash.

"No," Beatrice piped up from a step behind her beau, "we're not criminals. We just want a better place to raise our family… his parents hate me." After a moment the gray headed man pitched a nod to Gisborne and swept up the money. Gently Guy boarded, their saddle bags on his shoulder, and took her hands to lead her onto the deck. Luckily for the pair it was only a matter of minutes until they set off into the English Channel. The water splashed into the hull with a muffled voice and stretched up to occasionally brush their hands as Guy and Beatrice stood at the rail, doing their best to be out of the way of the sailing crew.

Gisborne could not help but watch as England drifted further and further away. He felt as if he was seeing a piece of himself floating off, out of reach, and that's because he was. Each bead of sweat that fell into the British soil was spent in exchange for power. He had climbed so high, literally from the ashes of his family, and conquered. It had taken so much but he was sure the title of Sherriff was brushing his fingertips as he yearned for it. Only now, though, he pondered its significance. King Richard I had pawned off titles such as Sherriff in order to fund his adventures in war. That's how Vaisey had snatched it up; how much, then, was the name worth if it could simply be purchased? Guy of Gisborne had starved to hike on top of each head in Nottinghamshire, his own level growing higher and higher, as he ventured into the top of the pyramid. But what was there? He guessed he would never know and, as the beach shrank on the horizon, he didn't quite care.

"How long will this be?" Beatrice asked as she wrapped her arms around his right bicep. Guy looked to the water and calculated the weather in his mind.

"Currents are hitting us hard but the wind is at our back… several hours, but by the end of the night for sure."

"Oh." Beatrice's eyebrows crinkled a bit.

"Tiny on a map, eh?" He mocked her, referring to her misinformation when they rode to Oxford. She nodded without realizing Guy was, in fact, making a joke at her intelligence.

"So, you lived in France?"

"No," he shook his head, "My mother did. Grew up in Brittany, married an Englishman…. For the record, my parents would love you," Guy swallowed hard and glanced over to the tender glow on her face. She felt honored that he was opening up to her, "My sister would despise you, though." She giggled at his jest and pushed hair from her face as oceanic wind blew her fallen curls. Gisborne paused and, for the first time in months, wondered what was happening in Isabella's life. He never bothered to keep in contact with her, but now, he supposed, he never could. Beatrice leaned over and worked her way to lean against his chest, Guy's arm placed across the back of her shoulders. He realized he was not nearly as terrified as he thought he would be. The sea air was rather liberating, in fact. All of his worries, superiors, stresses, they melted away with the drifting clouds. Truly he was free.

"I won't ever understand what you're doing for me," Beatrice looked up into his blue eyes with her round and youthful face, "But I will always be so happy to have you beside me." Guy lowered his head and kissed her with tender passion. He promised in this moment, as their lips and their bodies held tightly to one another, that he was going to leave his darkness behind on the shores of England. Unfortunately for him, he never had been a man of his word.


	10. Je T'Aime

*** Sorry for the wait, guys! Here is our eleventh chapter in all its glory. Don't forget to leave a review!***

The soil beneath his toes was soft. The grass felt warm, warmer than England, and the teasing scent of lilac drifted through the swaying brush. Clean blue skies encircled him as Guy stood barefoot behind a barn, his thick hair being captured by the breeze.

"Guy?" Beatrice emerged from the wooden barn with her hands tangled into crafting a braid with her hair.

"Yes, I'm coming." He went back into the shed and slid on his boots before tallying in his mind whether or not they had left anything behind. Once the couple had their satchels stuffed they departed.

"It's beautiful here, isn't it? Never thought I would see France." She carefully stepped over large stones that erupted from the dirt paths that led them away from the farm that they had bunked in for the night. Guy minutely nodded although he was still in shock by his surroundings. The landscape near the shore was breathtaking, and the emancipation of his schedule and stressors allowed him to absorb the coastal town. Yet he was anguished. Simply the idea of France drove the stake through his heart about his family; he missed his father and knew that here was no way he had survived his affliction of leprosy this long. And his poor mother… again he felt pangs of regret for selling off his sister. He wondered if they would have been able to work through it and have a relationship… but Gisborne shook each of these ideas from his head and released them into the wind.

"We need to figure out where we will go."

"Where's your family? Don't you have land with the title of Gisborne?" Beatrice soulfully looked up at him, giving his blue eyes a dose of respect and admiration. He had failed to mention, of course, that his status had been blown out of proportion by vanity and ruthlessness. From thin air he had whipped up divinity, and now that it came to the wire, he had nothing. Guy regretted his constant hunger and acquisition for material goods and thrones because it had gotten him nowhere now that his life depended on it. But who was to say he could not start again and build an empire here? Surely his tactical supremacy in England's army could invent clout among generals here.

"I don't know." He admitted.

"Guess you haven't been in a long time…"

"Since childhood."

"You mentioned Brittany?" Beatrice slipped her hand into his and watched as his muscles stiffened in his face. Gisborne felt, for the first time, helpless and indecisive. How could he not know what he wanted? He was a soldier, a leader, second in command to a Sherriff, a middle-aged man for crying out loud. But what did he want from his life, and where? The brunette halted him and took his eyes from the patchy grass; her tender hand brushed his cheek. "You know what, let's not worry about it right now."

"How can we not worry about having nowhere to go? We don't have beds, we don't have jobs –"

"Isn't that something we can figure out in a few hours?"

"Why would we waste our time?" His blood felt itchy with anxiety. Here was another poorly concocted plan that was founded on idiocy and naivety, a specialty of hers. She was a young girl. There was no way in her mind that she could grasp the severity of their situation or invent a solution like he could.

"Because I'm hungry, let's find a pub. We can't be too far from town." Beatrice's half smile pleaded and bought just enough time for her to drag him into a nearby city. Stone reinforcements blockaded and shielded in most of the area just like in Nottingham, but the colors of strung banners were vastly different. As they scuffled across the gate into the borders the pair became swept up in a lively afternoon. Markets were bursting with colorful produce as lute players bashed out jubilant tunes, their notes fading into the background of local dialect. The swirl of voices overtook them. Beatrice had never heard French, and she certainly didn't speak it. For Guy it was a portal that enticed and sucked him back to a time when his frustrations were no more than childhood rivalries and jealousies. They bumped shoulders with hurried shoppers and passed off beggars before finding a short building that boasted drawings of frothed mugs; the smell of ale, too, beckoned that it was a tavern as they darted in to dodge the constant traffic.

Several small wooden tables were crowded around by French locals, cups in hand, as clearly fatigued waitresses bustled between scuffing seats. Guy led her back into a corner for privacy, their hands intertwined tightly. He pulled out her seat and then relaxed himself; the nervousness in her eyes did not dissipate even after Guy lent over a grin.

"Thought this is what you wanted to do."

"I didn't realize no one spoke English." Beatrice admitted awkwardly. Her knuckles rubbed along the table's edge before she looked up sheepishly into his stare. They both knew that was a foolish preconception.

"Surely someone does." He chose to answer, knowing that criticism would be too harsh. She was already notably upset, fine wrinkles holding her eyes as she dropped her brow in worry. A redhead approached them, tray in hand, and flashed a smile.

"Que voudriez-vous?" She flirtatiously asked the Lord of Locksley.

"Je vais prendre du boeuf et du biere, et la viande de lapin avec du vin pour la fille." Gisborne immediately replied, absent of flaws, before she trotted off.

"Wow, really? That was amazing."

"It's not amazing; it's French." He chuckled with a slight tint of arrogance.

"You may not think its special, but it's one of the many interesting things about you… what else do you know?"

"Languages? That's it."

"Can you dance?"

"Yes. But I hate it."

"Hmm. Do you sing?"

"Definitely not."

"How about chess?"

"I love it," Gisborne answered as he took his beer from the waitress, "Wish I had someone to play with."

"Oh, well I'm no good there. I can't even figure out how backgammon is supposed to work."

"I could always teach you."

"That would be fun!" Beatrice cut a slice of her meal and chewed with a beam of a smile on. As they ate Guy could not help but stare; her chestnut hair was braided off and over her shoulder, which opened her slim neck and made it simpler to see her bright eyes. There was a bit of fizzing giddiness in his stomach about possibly educating her in so many things about the world. It filled him with a swollen pride that pressed against his ribs to think that she looked up to him so much; Beatrice considered him brilliant. The more Gisborne became coaxed from his shell of leather and angst the more she revered and sat in awe of him. It was addicting. Even as a leader of an entire English county he did not feel this empowered. He held the world, her world, on a string. There was also a glimmer of joy, he noticed, in seeing her so happy just to speak with him. Guy reached under the table and set his hand carefully on her knee, drawing her stare up to his crystal eyes. Beatrice set her palm over his.

"I could teach you all kinds of things… even French."

"You're too clever for me." She joked, her rosy lips spreading into a grin, her spine straightening to sit tall, although she was still shorter than him, even sitting. She was incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful. Guy wanted nothing more than to kiss her again; their lips had only met a few times but he excitedly anticipated more, his bubbliness like that of a school child. He recalled when they were across the Channel and he had set her on the horse, the way the sun kissed her cheeks, the way Gisborne's hands held her so softly as she kissed him so passionately. The lobes of his brain were rammed hard with the memory that he still had not confessed his feelings to the youthful girl.

"Well, it's a very romantic language they say." Guy dragged his chair next to hers with a slyness.

"Who's they?"

"Everybody."

"I never heard that; do you ask everyone what they think about French?"

"Never mind that," His eyelids fluttered in frustration as the mood he aimed to craft was picked apart, "I think you will be even more gorgeous speaking it."

"Aww, thank you, Guy."

"Like that wine there you have? It's called le vin."

"Le vin, alright."

"The meat and potatoes are la viande et les pommes de terre."

"Wow, um, viande et les pomme de terre?" Beatrice awkwardly repeated; her date glossed over her poor pronunciation.

"The most important one for us, though, will be je t'aime." He whispered, leaning in to her with the intention of a kiss as his fingers brushed away a stray hair. Gisborne's lips approached her but Beatrice absent mindedly stuffed the goblet of wine between them for a drink.

"This is just as hard as I thought it would be." She giggled. Clearly she had missed his confession of adoration and love in the translation. Guy plastered on a hollow smirk and returned to his own meal, his attempt foiled. A hardness of frustration balled up in his chest. For the rest of the meal they remained silent, Beatrice swimming in a land of paranoia over language barriers, and Gisborne mustering the fragmented pieces in order to tell her how he truly, deeply felt. Unlike Marian, she would not get away. Beatrice had to know how truly special and irreplaceable she was. For this reason, neither of them moved their hands from each other until they left the pub.


	11. How Could You Care?

Gisborne scraped his chin along his shoulder and tugged again on the weighty lump of fabric. After another hefty grunt he shoved the wrapped up corpse into the dug out pit, a thud finalizing the body's tumble. His forehead was invaded by sweat as he furiously scooped soil back over the makeshift grave with a rusting shovel. He stood several meters behind a small cottage, the hovering of dusk aiding his cover. Guy was filled with haste; he had to complete the job before Beatrice returned. If the bastard had just taken their money, it would not have been a problem. If he hadn't brought up all of the cellophane lies that soaked the Gisborne name… it didn't matter anymore. Guy placed a few stones over the filled in hole to match the landscape. Faint mists of rain were tickling at his skin, the humidity warm after his murder, and took away the crimson blood from his hands. Down the road he noticed his brunette companion hustling back towards the building, a scarf over her hair as a shield, food from the market in hand. The lobes of his mind re-examined the crime scene and he was eventually satisfied that he had hidden this violence. Gisborne went inside without another thought to the father that lie slain underneath his feet.

"I don't know where this rain is coming from," Beatrice chirped from the entryway as he stood in the kitchen, "Is Mr. Milleaux joining us for supper?" She gingerly entered their rented residence and set down her burlap bag of vegetables on the counter, smiling a few feet away from the killer.

"No, I don't think he's interested in staying here any longer."

"Oh, why?"

"I told you this afternoon, Beatrice, the Gisborne family rightfully owns this land," he vainly stroked a hand along the counter, "he could not argue with that."

"And he just left?"

"Yes." Guy blankly lied to her face. There never appeared to be a grain of mistrust in her bright green eyes; her naivety was a saving grace. Beatrice would never inquire too deeply, he knew, because she honored his age and experience too much to believe any word different than those from his lips. She shrugged and awkwardly readjusted her moist chestnut hair.

"You really are important then, eh?" She separated the produce and began rifling without a clue for various knives and spices, her thoughts no longer recalling the former landowner. Gisborne wished everyone could be as simple as her. A grumble of low thunder rolled along the wind; he glanced to the yard and recalculated the depth of his makeshift grave. He was certain even water would not wash away something that deep.

"What's for supper?" He grabbed up a cube of potato and began to snack as she chopped some more roots; he held a light smile. Something about a cute, youthful woman making his dinner created a warmth in his soul.

"Just some stew, I thought. It's been quite a day."

"Indeed."

"Oh no, are you alright?" Beatrice abandoned the dull knife and took hasty strides to his side, startling Gisborne. Her dainty hands hung over a splattered stain across his abdomen; it was blood. With widening eyes he nudged her palms back down and played it off, a paranoia momentarily haunting his stare.

"I'm fine. It was just a nosebleed, don't worry –"

"Should I get you a doctor?"

"What? No. I told you, it's fine." His veins scratched with mild irritation at her interrogation, a panic icily breathing down his spine. Beatrice could not discover who lurked beneath his skin. She would not love him then; did she love him now? The antsy tingle in his stomach could not jeopardize a potentially requited love. Not this time. Guy paced to the kitchen table and slipped out of the smeared midnight blue shirt, his skin lightly marked where the red had soaked through. Carelessly he crumpled it on the floor and wished she would return to the food. Beatrice shifted her weight and leaned to the counter with paleness creeping into her face. She wiped her cheek and sighed. "Beatrice?"

"Sorry, I just… I hate blood. It makes me woozy." She plastered on a grin with lips that were fading from rosy to blank. Gisborne furrowed his brow and could not imagine a life without exposure to violence and the bloodshed; she was even more tender than he had assumed. He circumvented the dining chairs and went to her frail body. Guy softly wrapped his hands around her narrow waist and stood only inches from Beatrice. Her skin transformed from drained to hot red in moments. She did not make eye contact as he stooped slightly to her height, his warm breath on her forehead, his flesh brushing hers. Her smile was forcing itself against her will while her sternum burned with excitement.

"Will you be alright?" Gisborne ran his fingers through her hair and held it back, his charm preceding him as he moved in to brush their noses together. He foolishly found himself extremely turned on by her weakness. She swallowed hard.

"I'm okay, really. I can go unpack you another shirt –"

"I'm comfortable like this," Guy caressed down her cheek with a devilish expression, looking like a schoolboy who was up to no good, "Aren't you?" She giggled but did not reply before allowing him to suavely kiss her lips, his heat filling her body. Beatrice hesitantly rested her hands on his bare skin and felt swept away in his charisma; she could not have believed that only an hour ago he had brutally stabbed a man in order to find them accommodation. To his credit, this was another person that she pressed herself to. Beneath his ribs Gisborne harbored a dual personality that could be coaxed out in an instant, or simply tucked away for later use. They ignored the boiling water over fire as their kisses continued. He had not had the luxury of this much affection from her before, much less any other woman that walked this earth. It was intoxicating.

"Don't you want supper?" Beatrice leaned away for a moment.

"I want you."

"Guy…"

"You are so perfect," he stroked along the curve of her spine, "God, I need you, Beatrice." She followed his lead in more smooches but clenched and retracted her muscles once his fingers had snaked to the ties of her dress bodice. Snapping off from his hold, she trudged back towards the vegetables and sucked in some oxygen to her desperate lungs. Gisborne's crystal eyes quickly hazed with frustration.

"I should finish this." She muttered with unsteady hands on the kitchen knife. Beatrice allowed her auburn hair to fall and shield her face from his piercing stare; he did not speak or flinch for several minutes.

"I told you I don't want to eat."

"I'm hungry."

"Me too, and not for that." Guy approached her and began to rub her back again, but Beatrice attempted to ignore him. There was a snap in his chest that released pent up frustration and yearning from many facets of his life.

"Please stop, not now."

"Not now? Not when the man who saved your life is telling you to do something; you think you don't have to repay me?"

"Not like this," she shoved the chopped vegetables into the pot and turned to him with cracked and feigned strength, "That's why I'm making your dinner and –"

"Dammit, Beatrice, why can't I ever just have what I want? I left that hellhole Nottingham so things would be different and they aren't; they just aren't. I love you, okay? I am so obsessed with you and everything about you that I did all of this and I get nothing? When is it my turn to get some wish answered?" Guy froze after the words came pouring like liquid from his mouth; his heart solidified like lead and dragged down to the floor. Why in God's name did he say any of that? Razors sliced through his blood in terror as she gazed upon his nakedness. There he stood, ribcage torn open, sincerity exposed, and she had nothing to say. Gisborne was ashamed that emotion had humanity had crept in.

"You love me?"

"Forget it."

"No, hey," she called out as he turned to retreat, "Guy… don't go. You said you love me?"

"Please forget it. That's not how you were supposed to hear it." He muttered with bitterness. Internally he kicked in his own skull for destroying the opportunity to be romantic. Perhaps that would have been his ticket to Marian; she had taught him that directness was unfruitful. Women wanted song and dance, not brutal honesty.

"I love you, too." Beatrice knotted her fingers together and watched as he rotated with shock to stare with hollow blue eyes.

"What?"

"I love you. I do."

"I just made an absolute idiot –"

"Guy, I've loved you since you held my hand in Sherwood Forest," she giggled before hurrying to him, "You said you wanted to marry me here in France, and that's all I want. But I'm scared if you… I don't want to ruin this." Thunder pounded the north country and accompanied slamming rain on the thatched roof. Thin window panes knocked with the downpour, donating sound to their silence. Gisborne was neutralized with joyful numbness. No woman had described these feelings to him before, especially not such a gorgeous and compliant one. She appeared heartfelt as her green eyes looked up longingly into his with a smile. Marian taught him that females were liars, users, and takers. But Beatrice… sure, she was fairly stupid, but she was innocent and sincere. There was only a marginal chance that she did not mean these words.

"What? But how can you… how could you care for someone like me? I'm shit." Guy admitted. Beatrice rolled up onto her tip toes and kissed him, her fingers brushing away lengthy raven locks, and she was pulled tightly into his chest. He wrapped his arms to cling to her frame and would not let her escape; this love would not leave him. Gisborne knew that he would do anything to preserve this mutual infatuation. "I love you, I love you so much." He felt the tingling words slip out and they tasted amazing.

"I love you, too, Guy of Gisborne."


	12. Let Us Continue

*** Hello, beautiful people! I sincerely apologize for the wait in this story. I have spent the past several weeks going across Europe (including the French countryside!) where I haven't had the time or internet to continue. I hope y'all enjoy the coming chapters!***

For the first time in weeks, uninterrupted sun rays shimmered through the leaves of the crisp trees in northern France. Oranges and yellows danced through the sky at sunrise, the scene painted like a peach that had been perfectly sliced in half. Late September was pulling the county out of summer rains and into the invigoratingly cool breezes of fall, and Beatrice couldn't have been happier. She was camped out in the yard, a mug of barley tea in hand, by the time Gisborne was coaxed out of a deep sleep. The shine of morning had darted into his chambers, piercing the poor quality curtains, and brought him to the window with a mutter of curses. The grogginess slid a filter in front of his eyes, but still he could see Beatrice's shape seated at the back of the house. She appeared as if drawn in to an oil painting of the early morning, the colors rich, the country becoming aroused for the day ahead. This curiosity magnetized him down the creaking steps and out into the yard with her. Guy's feet were bare and did not resonate a sound in the lush grass. As he approached Beatrice's tune floated to him; she was singing some song or another as her fingers rearranged leaves on the lawn.

"I didn't know you sang." He greeted her with a run of his fingers through her loose hair, startling Beatrice a bit.

"I didn't know you were up." She quickly replied. The brunette craned her neck up to see Gisborne towered behind her and noticed that the earliness still clung to the blues of his eyes.

"Nor I you."

"I just wanted to see the sky… gorgeous, isn't it? Not a hint of gray." Beatrice grinned, flashing it towards him.

"I suppose it is different."

"Different? Our entire week in France has been thick humidity and rain storm after rain storm. But this… it's so fresh. Finally it smells like lilacs instead of rain. And the sky is huge without all of those clouds in the way; this place must have been crafted by God's hand himself. Those trees placed specifically, the sun hung just on the edge…" She trailed off into intense focus on the horizon. Gisborne scrunched his eyebrows at her passion for something as trivial as sunrise. But he could not deny interest; she had mentioned things he hadn't even noticed. The breeze did, in fact, drift the scent of flowered fields and the Italian cypresses that dotted the plains were spires against the blazing star. "We can't waste today – what should we do?"

"It may be best to continue along to Brittany." He blankly replied. This was the fourth day since he had killed the home owner and not a soul had come to inquire or find him; still one could not be too cautious. As gritty as the word felt on his tongue, Guy knew they were now outlaws. They needed to lay low and keep a clean nose, which did not include killing for a residence.

"I quite like it here. Cute little cottage, isn't it?"

"This place is terrible," Guy scoffed, "The rooms are small, the stairs are falling apart… I hardly got the back door open to find you."

"I suppose you think we're going to get another castle like yours, eh?" She joked. His eyes fell a bit at her notion that his standards really did need to lower. But he was worth so much, so great, so invincible that he deserved far better than the shack Beatrice had stayed in at Nettlestone. Gisborne had clawed himself out of a muddy pit of hell and created his existence before, he could do it again. Like a phoenix he would rise once more.

"We can do better than this… besides, you may find it easier there. Several of the immigrants and dukes are English. We should be alright."

"If you think it's best, we shall go." Beatrice answered without hesitation. She stood and brushed her hand to his chest before heading back into the cottage. Guy followed her with an itch in his mind.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Leaving," he clarified without taking his stare away from her mint colored eyes, "You're just going to do it because I told you to?"

"Sure," she shifted her weight with discomfort with the sensation that he was unpleased, "You know better than I do."

"But what's your opinion? What do you feel about it?"

"Um… I don't know. Nobody's ever asked me that before." Beatrice's expression misted over for a moment before she began flying through cupboards to prepare breakfast. Guy approached her and hovered a hand above the strands of hair that had tumbled from behind her ear; he hesitated and retreated before tucking it back in place.

"I want you to be happy." He choked out as the syllables climbed the mountain of his pride. She paused before chopping the apples to smile in his direction.

"I will always be happy with you; I just know it."

After their meal the English couple stuffed their saddlebags with their meager belongings, somehow managing to fit in extra foodstuffs as well. They proceeded further south, away from the salty Channel, and drifted along paths that were pressed through waving amber grasses and fields. Deep green cypresses accompanied them on the horizon, their height contrasting the otherwise wide and untapped countryside. Gisborne began to notice the scenery repeat as each mile looked the same. The vastness of the plains disturbed him in the cold cavity between his ribs where his heart resided. The iciness began to float away, though, as Beatrice tightened her wrap around him on the horse. Clouds of panic and anxiety dissipated; he realized that she was watching the same scenery, the identical patches of empty waving grass.

"Not much out here." He mentioned with a false casualty.

"Lovely, isn't it? So much room for potential." Was her answer. Guy smirked to himself; where he saw a void she described a canvas. Where there was darkness she sought light. Beatrice truly was a whole different creature than himself, her hide much thinner, her sensitive belly more exposed. But her will to find happiness soared over any capability he himself had. Gisborne scratched at the sharp scruff along his jaw while pondering this. Since when could a girl like her care for him? And since when did a kiss taste even sweeter than her name? Perhaps love was actually more than just holding hands. If that's what this was, he had to get more in his grasp. He was hungry for it, just as he was thirsty for power, just as he was craving wealth. Gisborne knew he must hoard this passion as well and stick it deep within his mind where no man, nor force, could steal it away.


	13. Whatever Works for You

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Brittany was simply breathtaking. The city was big, larger than Nottingham, and boasted sights and sounds that a girl from the English countryside wouldn't have begun to imagine. Buildings stood tall and proud, most of them three or even four stories high, and often they had roofed walkways beneath the base where citizens could stroll or wind in to a tavern. The designs were similar to Britain; most were cream with stained woods making lines and patterns across the face. The wood here, though, came in an exhilarating variety of colors. Some houses were edged with orange, the adjacent business in blue, this one a fiery red. Stoney bridges over water and cobblestone courtyards dotted the city. Ivy and greenery detailed the architecture and a swirling cloud of both English and French danced through the streets in the sound of mothers laughing and merchants selling. Beatrice was stunned and caught in a state of petrifying amazement, yet at the same time she couldn't stop dashing to see the next attraction. Gisborne did not wear his impressions at all.

His thoughts were balled into a thick cloak of worry; could they survive in a whole new world? What sort of work could he find when their bags of cash evaporated? Guy was no peasant; he refused to even entertain the thought of farming or worse – peddling. Beatrice had worked with cloth in Nottinghamshire, but how could he sleep at night making his woman scrimp together cash instead of taking care of her? Although it had never been spoken it was assumed, in the soldier's mind, that she and her heart were his property. He would not do any less than possible for her. If Beatrice supposed, under whatever blinding light of ignorance, that he resided on a high alabaster pedestal then there he would stay. He could not lose her. Guy was assuaged a bit with the knowledge that he had secured housing for them. They would be staying in a small home up the stairs from a bakery. It became available only days ago when the tenant, a lady of the evening, had gotten involved with nasty clients and had turned up in the nearby river; Gisborne did not see any reason to share this information with Beatrice.

As the last of their meager belongings were spread through the house, he couldn't help but notice his lover's fascination with each little thing. He had paid for all of the remaining furnishings in the dead woman's home, so seats, tables, a wooden bathtub, and other items were already available. Beatrice even appeared to be a similar size to the abandoned clothing in the wardrobe. She emerged from the washroom with the faint smell of rose petals, no doubt having dug through all of the bath oils and soaps.

"This place is amazing," Beatrice gushed as her fingers drug along the beige wall, "It's got plenty of space for you and me, and even a spare room for the baby."

"What?" Gisborne's face crushed in. She glanced to him with hot emerald eyes of embarrassment.

"Nothing, it was… a joke. Not like I ever wanted children anyways. You're right." She shot away and scurried into her chambers to nervously scan through the available clothing. Beatrice was washed over in shame at the preposterous words that had come from her lips. They had just met. He was a noble. She was young and useless, dead weight to him if anything. Just as with all her suitors, this affection too would pass once he saw past her beauty and found no brains. The young brunette had felt so carried away into this fairytale land of foreign countries and visual feasts that she had forgotten this was the real world. Emotionally Beatrice was adrift in a warm sea, the sun on her skin as this realm of fantasy swept her away. Physically, she had to remember, this was life. She was not worthy of such an arrangement with Gisborne, nor could he be expected to give it to her after five weeks. Her father would have told her to grow up, to put away the childish make-believe, and to leave nonsense and daydreams behind. But what if that was the only way she knew how to cope with the universe around her that was so very different from herself?

"Beatrice…" Guy edged into her room with an awkwardness he had not worn in years. She continued picking through used clothing.

"Yes? What?" She calmly replied, putting away the heat in her veins at the tension in the air. If she pretended nothing happened then maybe it didn't.

"What you said –"

"I'm sorry, it was –"

"It just caught me off guard, that's all," His baritone voice stuck in her head, "but… it's okay. I would like to see if perhaps, we could manage to stay… maybe it's not out of the question at some point." Gisborne's Adam's apple tightened as the words stuck together in his throat. His heart and mortal tissue ached to tell her that he cared for Beatrice, that one day this home would be a beautiful place for their family, that she was inspiring to him. But alas the leather jacket he removed still clung tight beneath his skin.

"It's fine, just a bit of nonsense. A bit of fun." She spun to smile at him, her chestnut hair sweeping to the side in the motion, her visage blank of any discomfort.

"Do you really not want children?"

"Well, whatever, you know… whatever works for you."

"I want what works for you. I have spent decades of my life living for me; please, one time, just once, let me think about what somebody else wants."

"What I really want is lunch."

"Lunch you shall have." Guy smirked before motioning for her to exit the room first. The pair wound their way through most of the east end of town absorbing the sights and sensations that only France could give them. As they approached the river Beatrice gently wiggled her palm into his, her round cheeks blushing up. It was on the bank of this water that the two of them witnessed the sun fall away into the deep purple and black ink of night. As burning stars punctured the evening air Gisborne contemplated Beatrice's proposal; perhaps here they could have it all. France was the birthplace of his heritage, and now it could, with any luck or salvation, be where he implanted roots. Each night in the castle when he ached to have Marian, when he indulged the idea of raising their family in Locksley, when he clawed at the sheets for a companion he always knew with a glimmer in his stomach that it would never happen. Now, perhaps, those humble ideas could hatch into truth. Tomorrow, though, Guy would have to abandon this dream completely in order to cling to their survival.


	14. Familiar Faces

Gisborne's boots clicked along the cobblestone roads just as in his home county, but here there was so much buzz about that he couldn't even notice. The sea of people was slightly maddening for the self-satisfied man; he could not hear himself walk or even brush crowds away with his scowl. It was as if the air was breezing his naked skin. Guy felt vulnerable. If he could not claim authority, what did he have? His hand clasped tighter to the dagger on his belt. The idea of becoming a new man was fascinating and by no doubt entertaining, but it was wearing a bit thin on him; hard to teach an old dog new tricks and all. The forest green of his shirt reflected in the items for sale in the streets. He had journeyed out to purchase fresh fruits, but couldn't resist the ache to stop at a nearby weapons shop on the return trip. There was a calm that came from pressed iron, a whisper of assurance, a weight in his hand that made him feel less alone.

The available blades were stunning, their skins shined to a sparkle, their balance impeccable. In Nottinghamshire it would be impossible to obtain dangerous tools to this degree as they were an obvious threat to the Sherriff. It was interesting, to say the least, that the ruler here was so lax about absolute authority; it made Guy sneer a bit as he examined a knife with a carved bone handle. If he was not mistaken, the scene was from Homer's _The Odyssey_.

"That's the finest work you'll see this side of Rennes, I guarantee ya. Not even my best," the shopkeeper laughed as he set both wrists on the table; one hand was missing but had been bandaged with skill as if the wound was old, "but, eh, what can you do?" Guy looked up to note his shoulder length gray hair, its strands as straight as the edge of his nose. The warm blue of the man's eyes swelled in a moment. His face was soft, older, and instantly nervous. This man was familiar… "Sir Guy of Gisborne." He hardly muttered before freezing with his lips separated by shock. Guy popped his chin up in response and said nothing, only taking one more second to absorb the mental etching of this merchant, and looked down to the floor, his growing hair shielding his eyes.

"Je ne parle pas anglais." He lied before spinning and exiting the shop, his breath hot with worry. That man, that seller, who was he? A weapons expert who had clearly been punished; suddenly it clicked. Dan Scarlett. Locksley. Connected to Robin Hood. Frustration itched inside his ribs at the thought of this man's audacity. Memories of his treason and trouble angered Guy, but along with the wind came a feeling that consumed his flesh – terror.

Gisborne had been recognized, called out by an Englishmen in the south of St-Brieuc. How much farther did he have to go? Paris? Italy? The cloud of the crowd overwhelmed him and Guy found himself leaning onto the pillar of an archway. What if word snaked across the county, skipped over water, and slithered back to Vaisey? There was no cost too high for revenge in that man's mind. Existing in the eclipse of the Sherriff's shadow was hellacious enough; the constant abuse, negligence, the blame. How much worse would it be, he wondered, to fall on Vaisey's bad side out of grace? But hadn't he come all this way to escape the Sherriff's manipulation and puppeteering? Guy was achingly aware of the searing sores on his back where his marionette strings were stitched in as he dashed back to the temporary flat above the bakery.

He barged inside bewildered, mind numb, and he made it swiftly into his chambers before remembering he was carrying a bag of produce. The sack of fruit rested crinkled on top of his unkempt bed sheets as Gisborne struggled to regain control of his own brain. Nerves were ignited with flames as his stomach was falling into a bottomless abyss. They had to get out of here, and quick. Guy grabbed at the bag and hurriedly deposited it in the kitchen before searching each room for his companion. If they were quick, the couple could depart by nightfall.

Beatrice was eventually found in the washroom, the door widely ajar, the tub filled around her with a relaxing bath of rose petals. The hot water emitted steam like small whispers on the surface. Guy could see nothing but the back of her head where shoulder blade length brown hair had been rolled and pinned up; the curve of her neck, too, barely poked out from the tub. Clearly she was focused on something else. Perhaps her gaze had been caught by one of the sparrows that traced along colorful houses outside the window, or maybe a more enveloping scene in her delicate mind. Beatrice's clothes were folded on a nearby table which gave rise to a different focus for Gisborne. In a mere instant he had to stifle the urges to barge in; vividly he could imagine striding to the tub, taking down her hair, and passionately kissing her. From there he would pull Beatrice's short frame from the water and take charge of her skin without a word – Guy sharply inhaled to rein in his runaway thoughts. The secure blanket of authority draped over him at the thought of being on top of vulnerable Beatrice. Here was the hot strength he knew from guarding Nottingham. Gisborne suddenly felt embarrassed.

Here he stood with invincible skin and unwavering skill, yet he planned to run away from some elderly merchant? What utter bullshit that was. He wanted nothing more than to punt his own foolish brain out of the window and into the flock of sparrows; Guy of Gisborne did not run from anything. He had slaughtered men, women, and children in the Holy Land. He had pointed his steely blade to King Richard I. He had battled Robin Hood. He had donned impenetrable armor. A pathetic villager from Locksley was a dime a dozen, so why was he so concerned? This mess could be cleaned up in the usual manner. As Guy shifted his weight one of the floorboards moaned, startling Beatrice and alerting her to his presence. Instantly she crossed her arms to shield her breasts and turned her head to him.

"I didn't realize you were there."

"I just came to check on you; I didn't see anything." He honestly replied, thinking it was a bit of a shame, though.

"Oh… well, I'm fine." Beatrice awkwardly said as the water rippled when she curled up to conceal her skin. With a curt nod he departed and smothered out the howling calls of his lust, replacing them rather with a plan of action. What was there to be done about Dan Scarlett? Gisborne slid the dagger from his belt, making sure to do it slowly for the full thrill of the power. Tenderly he set the blade across an end table and sat adjacent to it, his fingers never leaving the hilt. A haze clouded his clear eyes at the excitement; soon there would be blood.


	15. We Are Starting Over

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"Guy, what are you doing? Stop!" Beatrice shrieked as the cold metal blade slid frictionless in and out of warm and human flesh. After the fourth puncture Gisborne yanked the dagger from the wounds with a splatter of tissue and plasma, convinced his victim had already gone, and turned the weapon towards her. Dan Scarlett slithered down the wall, his body voided of life, his crimson blood streaking the paint. Within the eyes were nothing; Gisborne had made sure their stares were locked when the soul was bled out. That was the pinnacle of the event and he would not miss that exhilaration for anything. Beatrice fumbled backwards until her hips were stopped against a solid oak table. Guy had stepped forward twice, the weapon aimed casually at her throat, cranberry blood stretching down the pressed iron.

"Why the fuck would you let him in here?"

"Guy, please, I'm sorry." The words flew away from her lips in an instant. Gisborne was a good six feet away, but the seriousness in his face terrified her. The wildness in his once clear blue eyes was haunting.

"What is the matter with you?"

"He asked for you by name, I thought… I don't know what I thought."

"You didn't think at all!"

"Maybe not, but please, please don't…" Her emerald eyes fell onto the glowing metal edge, his gaze following the cue. In a flash Gisborne launched the dagger to the side, smashing a vase of daisies, and went another step to her.

"We came here to start over and we are starting over!" He screamed with a growl that was birthed deep in his stomach. Guy blinked several times and appeared to land back onto this planet; in a matter of seconds the steam in his veins simmered, letting him draw back from the outburst. He had sensed the control fading out of his grip and reacted in the only way he knew how – by stealing it back. No price was too high, not even the cost of Dan Scarlett's life and Beatrice's peace of mind. But now Gisborne's expression was settled and close enough to normal that she felt safe glancing away to take in the corpse in the kitchen. The eyelids had peeled away to bug the empty glass eyes that were filled with emotion and life less than three minutes ago. She flinched as Guy brushed his hand down her arm. "We need to get rid of this."

"Where are you going to bury him?" Beatrice eventually mustered the words as he snatched a bed sheet from one of the rooms. Gisborne flopped Scarlett's shell onto it with a small grunt.

"We're not; he's going in the river."

"But… that's a person. You can't do that to a person."

"Hardly," he sneered whilst tying up one end of the makeshift sack, "and who's going to answer questions when he gets found buried round here? You?"

"Well…"

"It's going into the river on the edge of town. It'll float out of the city, out of the county, and out of our way. Now would you get over here and help?" Guy handed one end of the rolled up sheet into Beatrice's hesitant hands when she shuffled up to him. Distress was clear in all details of her demeanor; it made him question whether or not she had been exposed to death. He then remembered Beatrice's father had probably already met that fate, his throat enveloped in the violent grip of the noose, after aiding and abetting Hood. Gisborne softly took a hold of her shoulders and gave her a lazy half smile before lending a soft kiss to her forehead. When he took up the other end of the corpse, he failed to notice the blood he had smeared onto her clothes. Beatrice certainly did not.

As they drug the body down the stairwell with grunts and a few swears, she couldn't decipher why she was helping Gisborne in this grisly affair. The last thing she had wanted or anticipated was violence or gore, and she had witnessed firsthand how he had ignited like black powder. The incident was a blur in her brain lobes as the men shouted and quarreled before brawling, before Guy slipped out his knife, before this atrocious murder unfolded. And why? Why did this man have to die? Beatrice did not know, nor was she in strong enough mental health to ask at the moment. Gisborne terrified her. This man came to their home asking specifically for the Sherriff's accomplice. Had they been friends or business partners? It certainly didn't make Guy hesitate; what would happen if she dissatisfied him? Could he be capable of doing this to her smaller, weaker body?

Faint croaks and groans of distant frogs danced on the water in the late night when the couple arrived at the edge of town to dump the corpse. The air was unseasonably warm, perhaps from the swirl of physical labor and sin, in the dark inky sky. With one swift kick Guy shoved the rolled up package into the current of the water. The chilled stream did not defy them as it drug along Scarlett's cadaver without question, quickly leaving them alone. Steep Italian cypress trees encircled the bank in small pockets of forests, their scent drifting along the breeze, the fingers of the branches slowly dancing in the darkness. Beatrice could feel the anxiety and fear comingling in her stomach. Her nerves were so frayed and overworked that they began to shut down into a confusing numbness; she questioned in the base of her heart if she was dead or alive. Tenderly Guy drug her away from these thoughts as he ran his fingers down her sloppily bunned up hair. His touch was calming and sincere. How was this the same hand that had thrust that blade into an innocent man? She recalled the way he had beaten in the back half of a guard's brain before taking her from Nottingham. The drastic emotions of Gisborne frightened Beatrice, his capabilities disturbed her, but his soft touch lulled her into security and rather unshakable trust.

"You look tired," he cooed before pulling her into his chest, "You should sit down. Rest."

"I'm fine." Beatrice replied with cellophane bravery but she lowered herself to the ground anyways. Suddenly she was drowsy with the weight of fatigue pressing against her. It was as if the sleepiness had come from the spindling fingers of the cypresses, their touch caressing her with veiled intention. Gisborne accompanied her on the floor of the woods as the cold trickle of water brushed against the bank and sang a faint lullaby. He wrapped his arm behind her shoulders and brought the petite brunette to lie on his chest. Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut tightly; this evening had been brutal in multiple ways. Clearly, she thought, her beau was dysfunctional. Perhaps that was too harsh of a term. She decided to instead define him as occasionally unstable. With these shaky emotions and absent self-control she should want to peel away from his touch into a retreat of safety and seclusion. She shouldn't crave this closeness. But as Guy's fingertips traced up and down her spine Beatrice knew she couldn't make her heart let him go. There was no way she could deny the issues, and yet his breath on the back of her head was so warm, his hands so kind, his generosity so grand. Beatrice tuned her focus in as his heart beat with a small hurry at her nearness; tucked securely inside of Gisborne's ribs were the embers of passion, and the sound of it is what eventually let her wander off into sleep.


End file.
